Chapter V: In the Gorge Again

"But 'tis done—all words are idle—
Words from me are vainer still,
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will."
BYRON.

ONCE more Jem and Jean were in the gorge, not rushing headlong down the steep path, but walking steadily up. Jean could have raced as lightly the one way as the other; only she held herself in for the sake of her companion. Jem was overworked and out of condition. He had come to Dulveriford for rest, arriving late the evening before.

This sharp ascent was about as much as he could manage, taking it easily. There is no great practice in hill-climbing to be had at the East-End. Jean's quick eyes noted the occasional pauses, which were not only for admiration of the scene. He had lost his healthy tan, gaining instead a fixed paleness; but the face at twenty-nine was handsomer than at twenty-two. It had grown finer and more refined. The nobility of deep thought and the purity of self-abnegation shone through every feature.

Seven years since he had walked through this gorge.

The former time was vividly present with Jem. He found himself unexpectedly haunted by recollections of the fair girl, whom he had last seen here. Seven years at his age are a considerable slice out of a lifetime; and Jem had long ago risen out of the despair into which he was plunged by Evelyn's engagement to General Villiers. He could look back now, with a kind compassion, to his own misery of mind at that time, almost as to the misery of another person; and he could feel a friendly interest in Evelyn's welfare. He had ceased to dream of her in connection with himself. His life was full of thought, full of work; it was a life entirely devoted to the good of others; and so of necessity it was a joyous life.

Yet somehow he had never managed to fall in love a second time. Evelyn Devereux had been his first and only love. That one short episode had tinged his whole being. Evelyn Devereux, his love, was dead; but Evelyn Villiers would always be to him "a bright particular star."

All these seven years he had not been to Dulveriford. At first he had purposely stayed away, in dread of associations, in dread still more of seeing Evelyn, and so renewing the misery of loss. Later, he had not been free to come.

During five years past he had toiled, with every power of mind and body, in a great East-End Parish, rising to the position of Senior Curate—a man esteemed and beloved by all who knew him. He was in touch with his brother clergy, in touch with the working men around, in touch with the mothers, the children, the sick, the poor. Dominated in his uttermost being by the love of Christ, intensely loving and lovable himself, he won the love of others, and through their love for him, he led them to a nobler life, a life of service to the Muster whom he served. But the doing of this meant no easy-chair existence.

Offers of livings had come to him, not once or twice only. Jem was, however, in no haste to change. He delighted in his present sphere; and he cared little for advancement.

Once a year, generally in spring or early summer, he went for a month to Scotland, to recruit his much-tasked energies. At other times he could seldom be spared; and when he had a few days, his mother wanted him. Two or three times he had met the Trevelyans of Dulveriford in Scotland, when his holiday had happened to coincide with that of Mr. Trevelyan: but Dulveriford, he had not seen, declining all invitations.

This year his annual change had, from one cause or another, proved less successful than usual; and the advent of hot weather knocked him down. Jem struggled on till August; then doctor and friends insisted on another rest. An invitation from Dulveriford Rectory, coming at the right moment, was accepted.

Jem had not known, till after his arrival, that General and Mrs. Villiers were at home again. The knowledge would have made no difference as to his coming; for he counted himself completely cured of that long past suffering, able even to smile over it. Yet, walking through the glen once more, amid the surroundings of golden water, flecked leaf-shadows, sunshine and rocks, Jem experienced something like a transient revival of the old pain. He seemed to see Evelyn's face at every turn; to meet again the fringed black-blue eyes turned full upon him in wondering delight.

"Is it too far? Shall we turn back?" asked Jean, when Jem paused again near the rustic bridge, to lean against a tree.

Jem smiled at her. "You must give me a day or two to get up my powers," he said.

Jean did not pester him with solicitude. She had been trained to despise fussiness in the health-line. To be ill at the Rectory was almost a crime; not in the sense in which Sybella Devereux made it a crime, by always ascribing it to the sufferer's own imprudence; but bodily weakness was something to be ashamed of, something to be hidden and trampled under foot.

"Do you remember the last time you and I were here?" asked her companion.

He could not get the recollection of Evelyn out of his head. It was, however, a soft recollection, not unpleasing, though sad; and he could quite well bear to talk of her.

"Just after General Villiers was engaged to Cyril's sister," Jean answered promptly.

"General Villiers told me of the engagement here—in the gorge."

"Yes; I heard him begin, and I ran away. Aunt Marie had been so vexed, because I came upon her and my father talking about it. Aunt Marie didn't like her to marry somebody so old."

"You were a funny little girl in those days." Jem looked attentively into the grave face. "Jean—I should like to see you laugh more."

"Would you? But there is nothing to laugh at."

"Never?"

"Oh, sometimes—when people do odd things. Not often. Why should one be always laughing?" asked Jean, with girlish solemnity. "I don't think life is so very funny. It is worse than funny. There are so many things that one can't understand."

"What things?" Jem moved to a fallen log, and sat down, motioning Jean to do the same.

"A great many. There are no end of puzzles."

"Tell me one of them."

Jean considered, and came out abruptly with—

"I never do see how Evelyn could marry General Villiers."

"Hardly needful for another person to see, if she cared for him enough."

"No—but—" There was a singular echo of Jem's "if" in Jean's expressive face.

"And we have not to settle that point."

"No—but—" a second time, followed by another pause. "No: of course. Only I don't see how one can help wondering. Evelyn is so unlike everybody else; so beautiful and clever. Oh, 'clever' isn't the word. She is much more than clever."

"Intellectual."

"Yes; that is more what I mean. She seems to have such a—I don't know what to call it! She takes everything in, and thinks everything over; and then it comes out quite different, and so fresh. I'm not explaining myself properly. My father says she is original. And General Villiers isn't the least original, or clever, or anything. He is only good."

"That is a very important 'only.'"

"Oh, but don't you understand? One ought to be good, but one ought not to be only good. It shouldn't be just mere commonplace goodness."

"It ought to have a distinct character of its own, in each individual," suggested Jem, not a little interested in the play of Jean's face.

"Yes; I suppose that is what I want to say. My father always talks of General Villiers as such a 'very good man;' and it sounds to me as if he said it because he had nothing else to say. But I don't think one loves people merely because they are good—does one? At least I don't. There are numbers of good people that I can't love at all. I suppose I like their goodness, but I don't love themselves, because there doesn't seem to be anything in them to love."

"Or if there is something, Jean does not see it."

Jean was silent for a minute, and her next words might have seemed disconnected with her last. They did not so seem to Jem. He had the clue, and he could supply the connecting link.

"Evelyn was only two or three years older than I am now when she married. Only just eighteen—and he was the same age that my father is now."

"A considerable difference!"

"Cyril says people drift into things and can't help themselves."

"Cyril has had immense experience, no doubt."

"Then it isn't true?"

"Some people are weak enough to let themselves drift; but nobody need. Mind that, Jean."

"If Evelyn drifted into marrying the General—"

"Yes?" as Jean came to a stop.

"She must be very sorry now. That is what I have been thinking. Because it wouldn't be enough, I should think, to have a husband who was only just so very good and nothing else. And he doesn't care for the same things or the same people that she does. He never reads the books she likes most . . . Evelyn often looks as if she were sorry. She looks as if—I don't know exactly how to put it—only there's a look in her face, as if she did so want something else, something more than she has. He is very kind, of course; but still—I shouldn't think she was so very happy."

Jem rested his forehead on his hand. Jean's words brought a curious sharp sense of pain; literal pain darting through his temples, symbol and fruit of an acuter pain below. The pain was for Evelyn, not for himself. He was not thinking of himself, or of his own loss. Personally he had nothing to do with Evelyn Villiers, whatever he had felt for Evelyn Devereux. But, if Jean's conjecture were true—if that fair creature's life had been marred by hasty action, before she was old enough to judge for herself, Jem hardly knew how to face the thought. It seemed to him so very possible, and so very terrible.

If Evelyn were happy, he could rest in the consciousness of her happiness, going his own way peacefully enough; but if she were not—How could he rest, knowing her to be miserable, while he was powerless to help? "Miserable" is a strong word; but if love and sympathy were lacking between the husband and wife, what could it mean less than misery for either of them?

Jem's pulse throbbed with the picture which unconscious Jean had conjured up; yet he spoke quietly: "Jean, you must take care how you say such things."

"I wouldn't, to anybody accept you. I never do. But I can't help seeing: and it is true."

A good ten minutes of silence followed. Jean rose and went to the edge, gazing down upon a swirl of dark water in the rocky bed below. Jem remained where he was. He had to quell a rush of fierce longing to ask more, to find out more, to learn how things really were with Evelyn, to know if possible only that she was happy. He craved nothing further, but that he did crave, passionately, bitterly—just to know that she was happy!

The peace of years was suddenly broken up, and a whirlpool of the old suffering had him in its grasp. There was nobody to see, for Jean's back was turned; and had anybody else been present, there was not much to be seen. At the ten minutes' end, Jem had mastered himself.

He came to Jean's side, only a little paler than usual, to say, "Don't go too close to the edge. You would have a poor chance if you fell over."

Jean retreated two steps obediently. "But I am never giddy," she said. "Cyril can't stand there. It makes no difference to me."

"You have strong nerves."

"I've always lived here, you know. Shall we go on now?"

"I don't think I can walk much further to-day. Stupid of me, isn't it?" said Jem cheerfully. "I'm a little—tired, perhaps. So, on the whole, we may as well turn back."

It seemed like a dream to Jem. He could hardly believe his own eyes, when, as they came down the path, two people advanced towards them from below, passing out from the tree-shadows as once before. It was almost on the self-same spot that the encounter took place. Jem and Jean were not rushing now, however. Jean was no longer a child, but verging on womanhood; and Jem had lost some of his buoyancy; and twice seven years might have passed over the General's head.

Evelyn was perhaps the least altered of the quartette; or so Jem thought at the first moment. She appeared hardly less young or less lovely than the picture stored in his memory. Yet the next instant, he saw that she, too, was changed—not only developed into fuller beauty and more womanly grace. Development had not taken place merely along the lines that might have been expected. The faintly satirical set of her lips was altogether new; and the eyes—those wonderful violet eyes—no longer shone with delight in the world around her, but were full of a sad forlornness, as if she had come to the end of her life, had tasted all it had to offer, and had found that all unsatisfying. Jem understood now what Jean had meant.

The four stopped, of course, and exchanged kind greetings.

General Villiers was delighted to see Jem. "I meant to call on you this afternoon," he said, "but we met Mr. Trevelyan, and my wife has asked him to bring you in to dinner to-night. Just a family dinner—only one or two others. You will come, of course. Mr. Trevelyan could not promise for Madame Collier."

"Thanks, I shall be much pleased," Jem answered.

"Why not give us three or four nights before you go back? We should be delighted," urged the General.

"I don't think I can. I'm afraid I shall have to hurry away, even sooner than I meant."

Jean gave him a look.

"Thanks, all the same."

"So you have secured a peep at the glen the first thing," remarked Evelyn. "Is it not curious that we should meet again just on this spot, after so many years? Do you remember?"—with her gracious smile. Then she asked, "Have you been ill lately? I had not heard of it."

"Rather out of sorts. Yes—I remember! Seven years ago."

"Only seven. It seems so much longer. I could believe you if you said 'seventeen years!'"

General Villiers looked down on her with a smile. "That would make you a good deal older than you are, my dear," he said. He was proud of her youthful beauty, and never sought to hide the discrepancy in age—which, indeed, would have been a hopeless task. "Now, with me the years slip by in a marvellous way—like lightning. Almost as soon as a year begins it is gone. Seven years! Impossible! But Mr. Trevelyan looks older."

Evelyn's glance went again to Jem with kind solicitude. "He looks—not at all well," she said.

"East-End work takes something out of a man," Jem said, in apology for his appearance.

"You will not keep on at that always. You will have a living some day," said the General.

Jem might have told of several rejected livings.

"Some day, perhaps. One would wish to give one's best years to that work—and then—"

"But not to go on too long," suggested Evelyn. "Not to use up all your powers."

"They could hardly be used up to a better purpose."

"No—only—" she hesitated, dropping her voice, as the General turned to speak with Jean. "Oh, I understand! It must be a splendid life—a life worth living."

"It is a life worth living."

"So different from most people's lives!" and the deep blue eyes, which for a moment had kindled as of old, went forlornly to some far distance, with a listless sadness which struck home to Jem like a keen stab. Then they came back to him, kind and anxious again. "But you do look too much overdone. You must remember your friends."

"My love, we have not much time to spare," the General said. "I suppose we can hardly ask Mr. Trevelyan to come again with us to the bridge."

"He said he was tired," put in Jean.

"I am sure he is. Oh no; we shall meet by-and-by. He ought to go back now," Evelyn said at once, and they parted.

Jem made no effort to decide the matter for himself.

Few words were spoken on the way home. Jean gave a questioning glance now and then, of which Jem seemed unconscious. He was absorbed in his own thoughts. They did the remaining distance at a good brisk pace, never slackening speed. But when the house was reached, Jem all at once succumbed, seeming to be utterly wearied out. Jean had never known him so before, and she saw with a sense of dismay. To be scolded by Madame Collier for not taking better care of her cousin was a new experience, in a house where nobody ever thought about health; but Jem's exhaustion was something new also.

He had found his way to the drawing-room sofa, and there it seemed most merciful to leave him undisturbed. None in the house could guess at the real cause of his prostration—could know how the haunting vision of those sad violet eyes never left him for a moment. Jem saw them continually, whether his own aching eyes were open or shut.

"I'm sure I don't know what's to be done. He doesn't seem fit to go," said Madame Collier, when six o'clock came.

Jean would hardly have been more startled by the fall of a stack of chimneys than by the implied doubt. Not go to dinner at the Park! Memory failed to supply any precedent in the shape of a broken engagement. If a Trevelyan undertook to do something, he did it at all costs and hazards, short of absolute impossibility.

"I don't know what he really wishes, or what is the matter with him. He is tired and has a headache, and he can't or won't say more. Do bring him to a point, Jean, somehow. I wish he had not been so far this morning: but one could not guess, and it had no business to knock him down like this. Your father ordered a fly, for we didn't suppose Jem could manage the walk; and it will be here soon after seven."

Jean went to the drawing-room, wondering. Flys were not a common indulgence at the Rectory. She found Jem in the deep easy-chair near an open window, with his hand over his eyes. Jean's step was light as of old, and he seemed unconscious of her entrance. She stood looking at him for some seconds.

"Aunt Marie thinks you don't want to dine at the Park," she said at length.

Jem's sudden movement was as of one awakened from a dream. "It's no matter," he said.

"But if you are too tired—" Jean paused, astonished at her own words. Nobody at the Rectory ever thought of leaving a matter undone, merely on account of fatigue.

Jem did not at once reply. He was leaning back, quiet enough outwardly: and Jean could not see through the shield of composure. She could see the pale and drawn look: she could not know how intense was the craving to judge for himself as to Evelyn's happiness. The whole force of his desires pointed in that direction. But there was another side to the matter. Jem needed all his powers for his work: and if one glimpse of Evelyn's face had so destroyed his calm, how would things be after a whole evening in her presence? Might he deliberately risk it? Would it not be wiser, better, to keep away? For he could do no good. If Evelyn were not happy, he had no power to touch her unhappiness. Seeing her thus could only mean distress to himself, not gain to her.

Jean stood waiting, perplexed at his indecision; and as his hand went slowly over the rumpled hair, she began again—

"If your head is so bad—I mean, if you think you had better not go—"

"It is bad. Yes—I think I had better not go."

"Stay at home! Must you?" Jean had not expected this; and she was a good deal disappointed in Jem.

"I am afraid I must."

"It isn't walking, you know. The fly is ordered. And Evelyn will expect you. Wouldn't going do you good?"

Jem could truly answer, "No, I think not." He added in a gentle voice, which Jean knew to be decisive—"Tell aunt Marie I will give it up. And, Jean, I wish you would explain something else. I am sorry, but I find I can only stay two more nights here."

"You are not thinking of London again so soon."

"No."

Jean moved away without a protest, and gave her double message.

"Well, it can't be helped, though I know your father will be vexed," was Madame Collier's comment. "There's something wrong with Jem that we don't understand. Go home in two days! That he will not. He has heard something from somebody by post, I suppose. It doesn't matter. We won't let him off any of his week."

But when Jem knew himself to be in the right, his will was unbending as iron. After two nights, he left and he did not see Evelyn again meantime.